


Dans La Foret

by hellkitty



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Knotting, Other, Were-Creatures, lycanthropy, the author is going to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:59:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><s>Because clearly a French title makes this all better </s> </p><p>Based on <a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=13757384#t13757384"> this</a> rather open-ended prompt. Don't give me open-ended prompts, people; this is the mayhem that ensues. </p><p>Warnings for knotting, possible dubious consent and whoa buddy prose of the purplest sort.  Nothing like breaking in a new fandom with filthy filthy cheek-blushing smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dans La Foret

It had been easier in Toulon, in Montreuil-sur-Mer, to keep this secret. Out in the country, all he'd had to do was keep a sharp eye for poachers and steer clear of livestock, his clothes--carefully anonymous trousers and smock in case they were discovered--tucked in a satchel in the crook of a tree.

Paris made it harder. Paris made everything harder. But though Javert was not an ambitious man, he was a man prideful of his achievements, and wanting recognition for them. And recognition meant the Prefecture of Paris. It was an honor and he felt it as such, except on nights like this, the full moon shining down like a pewter coin, calling to something wild in his blood.

His mother had been a fortune-teller, a gypsy, and she'd given her son little more than a memory of shame and his swarthy complexion, and this, the strange transformation that had overtaken his body since his youth. He had never had close friends--this was just one more wedge against the door of possibility.

It was harmless enough, once he got used to hiding the secret, once he got used to the sudden, terrible strangeness of the change, elongating his limbs and jaw, filling his mouth with ravenous teeth, his belly with a fierce hunger. It had been his boon, in fact, that secret gift that was the top edge of his skill, his mind honed with the works of Vidocq and his own careful study of the criminal mind. Several times he had sniffed out danger, found a bootlegger's lair, a bandit's cave, padding on soft feet, silent through the night forest; several times he had stopped a crime by rearing up to howl at the moon, the ferocious cry shattering the silence under which crime tried to hide itself.

He had to make do with the outskirts of town, now, nodding to the nightwatch with that gruff silence that spoke to them that he was on some official business that it was best not to ask after. It was nearly a lie, but he had never been questioned on it, never forced to utter the lie in full-fabric, and so he let it pass, his workman's clothes under his cloak, until he could duck up the hedgerow and into the welcoming woods, stripping off clothing that had become more noxious with every step away from the city's walls, with every inch of the moon's rise in the heavens. 

The air always struck his skin, warm or cool by season, skin that would be human-pale but for an instant, the greyish brown fur seeding rapidly over it, covering him, nose to toes, in a luxuriant coat. He could fill his mouth fill with teeth, long and sharp, capable and eager to rend, he could feel his hands turn into heavy paws, fingernails hardening, hooking into terrible claws, and the tail sprouting, long and dark, behind him as he dropped to all fours, gliding through the night not as Javert, the police inspector, but Javert, the wolf, the half-wild thing of legend, like Bisclavret and the monsters of Breton myths.

It was early summer now, the late days of May filling the air with the scent of flowers, the soil still cool under his leathery pads. In a few months, it would be August hot, the ground not much more than a caked powder, the air heavy with the scent of golden wheat and parched grass and the dustiness of sundried manure.

Javert was no poet, so he would only fail if he tried to find words to describe this change, the strange mix of the alien and the familiar, freedom and animal baseness. It was who he was, and there was, if he could admit it, a fierce joy in owning the woods, in being seen and known as the predator his was, his night-gold eyes echoing the moon's bright light, piercing and dangerous.

He had eaten, before night fell, so the hunger in his belly wasn't for food--there had been too many times he'd changed on an empty stomach, and found himself driven to hunt. And while there was a fierce, feral pleasure in the hunt, in chasing and rending, coming around in his own body, his human form, later, mouth and hands mottled with blood--it was a risk he dared not take this close to Paris.

He didn't know what he hungered for, following the forest's unseen paths for a time, sniffing the air as though reading an open book, the forest giving up its secrets to his nose, until he found a whiff of something, a whisper of some dark musk, like blood, but unlike, that set his body quivering, his tail atwitch, and his paws hastened their pace on the dew-damp paths, chasing from clearing to clearing, his breath huffing out in distracted little ouafs, until he found it.

Or. Her.

A collie, her long hair sleek and gleaming in the moonlight, white and copper, with a lean, fine muzzle, a tail like a banner, that waved uncertainly when she saw him enter the clearing, the moon picking his own form out, massive, muscular and silver-limned.

He approached, eager, smelling the estrus on her, stronger than any wine or whiskey man could invent, going straight to his head, straight to his member, stiffening in its sheath. He wanted. She wanted.

He took.

It was as simple as that out here, the rule of Nature, tooth and claw; no fine manners, no courtly wooing and denials, no playing coy or shy. Simple, straightforward, almost brutal: his teeth bared, sinking into that luxuriant coat over her elegant arch of a neck, her tail a silken tickle off to one side, right where his fur thinned near his belly. His cock, slick and pink and pointed, glistened only for a moment in the night air, before finding its home inside her, sinking itself into the source of that maddening, delectable scent. His weight was heavy on her shoulders, pinning her still with his forelimbs and teeth, as his hips pumped against hers, goaded and delirious with lust. She braced her weight under his, taking the powerful thrusts of his vulpine body, his large cock driving into her, its furry sheath just at its base, below where he could already feel a swelling, the knot forming as his need whipped higher, like the flames on a house fire catching the straw of the roof.

The knot filled her, utterly--he could feel the stretch and tautness against him--as he came, pulled into the agonizingly long, slow ecstasy of orgasm, his hips stilling to a sharp quiver, balls twitching to pulse his seed into her, filling her with his member, with his semen, flooding her with his ownership, his mind white hot and lost in the release.

He woke, the moon, now low in the sky to the west, shining on his face, his body shivering to a sudden chill. His body--human again, bare as the day he was born, limbs still tangled with hers, and hers, now, human too, gold hair spilling over a shoulder paler than the moon above. If he moved her hair, he knew he'd find a bruise or two on the back of her neck, from his sharp bites. He pulled back, feeling the stir of warning: daylight was coming soon, and with it travelers and risk of discovery. His cock spilled from her, with a rush of fluid hot against their night-cooled bodies, stinging her awake. He could see her eyelids start to flutter--another discovery he must flee. He was a known figure about Paris, and she was, too, he'd imagine, by the fine softness of her hands that had never known a day's work, the soft perfume under the musky scent of her sex.

He rose, less silent now than before, aware of the mud on his knees, his hands, and too, too aware of his cock, still damp from being inside her, still throbbing with remembered pleasure, the edge of his lust whetting itself at the sight of her now--a woman who, in this body, in her body, would never condone to let him so much as kiss her hand. And he'd made it to the far side of the clearing before she woke, turning her face to the sound of his steps, beholding his own dusky-pale naked body, the line of hair down his belly, fanning out over his manhood. The last thing he saw before dashing into the woods, racing for his clothing, for the dignity that would come with redonning the clothing of Javert, police inspector, devoid of lust, devoid of love, devoid of anything but duty to the Law, were her bright blue eyes, pools of desire, wanton, wanting more.


End file.
